


blood stains my teeth red as i laugh

by gothamcitysirens



Series: glory and gore [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Black Widow (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Canon-Typical Violence, Multi, and korivnder/kamalasfanfiction's black widow!reader au, cursing tw, jason todd is latino fuck off, violence tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:19:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8040481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothamcitysirens/pseuds/gothamcitysirens
Summary: “You belong to Mother Russia, and you belong to me. Do not forget that.”
 It's been a long time since you saw the Red Room last. But it's still in your dreams.





	blood stains my teeth red as i laugh

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KamalasFanfiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KamalasFanfiction/gifts).



> Big thanks to KamalasFanfiction / korivnder for letting me use her Black Widow!Reader AU to write this.

There is something comforting about the way, even after all this time, you still remember the lessons that the Red Room taught you. They will never leave you alone, always haunting your mind like an infectious fever, no matter how desperately you want to forget. They’ll stick with you, because it’s all you know. The only thing that’s concrete in your ever-changing life. The lessons are the only things that have been with you since the beginning, and they’re the only things that will be with you in the end. Espionage and murder are your tools. You wield your charm like a sword and your charm like a shield.

But you wear someone else’s skin now. You do the jobs that Batman can’t afford to be seen doing or, on the darker side of the coin, the ones he doesn’t  _ want _ to be doing. You pick up after the ones that are so good at their job that the Bat doesn’t even see them coming; they just  _ are _ . They’re good. But you’re better.

It’s a cold night when  _ he _ finally catches a glimpse of you. It’s not your most glamourous moment, but certainly not your worst either. There’s blood spattered across your face and the knife you’re holding is covered in dripping red.

The figure drops down from a rooftop into the alley where you’re at. It’s almost comedic how stereotypical this is playing out. He’s got a black suit with a bat in red going across the upper chest of his kevlar and all you can think is that either  _ a) _ Batman decided he needed a splash of colour in his life; or  _ b) _ this is someone entirely brand new. (You’re thinking that this is someone else, if only for the fact that the infamous Gotham vigilante would probably never wear a crimson bucket on his head.)

“I guess I showed up late to the party,” he drawls wryly, and you can almost hear the cynical smirk on his lips as he says it.

You raise a perfectly arched eyebrow at him, as if to say,  _ Who the hell are  _ you _? _

He shrugs in reply.  _ I could ask you the same. _

Bucket-Head helps you finish off the rest of the lowlifes. He’s a particularly good shot, if a bit too jerky in his motions. But then again, he’s most likely never had the training of the  _ Krasnaya Komnata _ . With the two of you working together, you’re quite a formidable team. You almost feel bad for these guys.  _ Almost. _ You remember that these pieces of shit are higher-ups in a child-trafficking job, and your next punch is strong enough to kill. It’s almost... _ personal _ .

When all of them are dead, lying in a pool of their own blood and slumped against dirty brick walls, Bucket-Head looks at you and nods in some odd form of gratitude. “Thanks for that. Been looking for these douchebags for about a month. They’re part of—”

“A juvenile slave ring,” you say, the words like poison on your tongue, choking you and reminding you of a ballet studio that seemed too big for such a small girl. Disgust builds up in your throat, and it’s almost suffocating. “ _ I know. _ ”

“I’m the Red Hood,” he replies, holstering his Glock and sticking out a hand for you to shake. “And you are?”

You stare at the hand for a split-second, wondering if this is an ally you’d like to have. Even after all this time, you still think in pros and cons. But you don’t work for Mother Russia anymore. You work for  _ yourself _ .

You take his hand and shake it, feeling a crooked grin begin to blossom on your red lips. How ironic, that you come back to this name despite years of desperately trying to erase it from every part of your being. “The Black Widow.”

 

 

It’s a bit of a risqué move, making yourself known as the Black Widow. One that could either end with your sorry ass back in Russia or your name on the Batman’s radar. Either way, it could end disastrously. You were already pushing your luck by working on one of the lowest levels at Wayne Enterprises. It paid well;  _ keep your enemies close, and your friends under tight surveillance _ was a motto that you heeded close attention to. Especially when you didn’t know if Bruce Wayne could be considered an acquaintance or not.

“Hey,” one of your co-workers says, calling your name and waving a hand in front of your face. What was her name again—Laura, Lindsey? “Are you alright? I’ve been talking to you for the past minute or two, but you seem kind of spacey.”

You nod, taking a long sip of the coffee on your desk. It’s dark and too bitter, but you don’t show any emotion on your face as to your displeasure. “Yeah, sorry about that. Just tired.”

“ _Lacey_ ,” Ah, so _that_ was her name, “ _I need some help over here!_ ” someone calls.

She smiles apologetically at you. “Just give me a second.”

You pick at your nails, watching the minty green polish fall to the floor in crumbles. They’d have been ruined anyway. After-hour activities that involved murder didn’t necessarily contribute to pretty nail beds anyway. It almost makes you laugh, actually, knowing that you’re  _ right _ under Bruce Wayne’s nose, hanging on the edge of his radar, and he  _ still _ can’t see you.

_ Of course _ , Madame would have said, her grey-and-brown hair in a tight chignon and thin lips stained bright sanguine.  _ I would expect nothing less from my best. _

Blinking, you force yourself to snap out of it. The Madame is dead; you made sure of that when you burned the Red Room and walked on the ashy remains. The Red Room is gone, but it lives on in your head.

 

 

_ Stealing _ is a bit of a strong word to use when, technically, you’re only  _ borrowing _ .

You plan on giving the car back anyway, but only after you’re finished making your run throughout the slums of Gotham. The sedan is loaded with supplies you’d bought, spaced out over the span of a week so it wouldn’t seem weird. It would last the families there a month, maybe a month and a half if they were careful. To others, it might seem like a stupid, inconsequential thing to do, but you know what it’s the stupid things that end up having a large impact.

There are twelve large duffel bags filled with all sorts of things. You know for sure that there are the standard toiletries like deodorant and soap, but you’d also included canned foods—Vienna sausages, corn, green beans, and the like. As a bonus, you’d even included $150 dollars of your own money. You’d decided that something you’d stolen, even after the tedious process of laundering it, might still be too much of a hit-and-miss and you wouldn’t risk innocent lives. So you used your own instead. It’d taken some serious saving up, especially since your low-level job at Wayne Enterprises only paid $20 an hour.

“Funny seeing you here,” the Red Hood says as you’re dropping off your third duffel bag. He’s wearing a different jacket than the one you saw the first time, but this one is covered in blood. Not his, presumably.

You don’t even bother to turn around as you reply, “Hilarious.”

He gestures to the car, the colours of the bags catching his eye. “What’s in there?”

“You can open one,” you say, walking to the makeshift door of the piss-poor house, “Nothing dangerous, I promise.”

You’d heard about this family from someone at work, who had called them dirty moneyloaders stealing the government’s money. You hadn’t done anything to him  _ directly _ , but he was certainly missing a few thousand dollars from his cheque account. Money that would be used to help the next group of people.

“Damn,” the Red Hood says. You can almost see the wonder on the face behind the helmet. “You must’ve bought an entire store out.”

“I try,” you say nonchalantly, slowly lifting up a windowpane. It’s much easier to drop it  _ inside _ rather than on the doorstep, which would attract more burglars.

You signal for him to be quiet, though it’s really unnecessary, and sling the bag over your shoulder. Everyone in the house is asleep—you’d checked—and you feel a little bit like Father Christmas. A murderous, assassinating Father Christmas.

You leave the bag on top of the kitchen counter, forcing yourself from wincing at the dilapidated condition of the house. The fraying wallpaper. The slightly rotted floors. The half-fallen air conditioning unit. There were  _ children _ who lived here, who called this place home. You swallowed once, hoping to wash away the guilt that threatened to rise up to your throat.

Once you’re both outside again, the window safely locked again, you force yourself not to look surprised when the Red Hood asks, “So, where’s the next house?”

 

A woman calls your name. Her dress is black, like the darkness that creeps closer and closer to your own heart, and covers her arms to the wrist. It falls to the woman’s ankles, revealing pointed shoes, meant for digging into young girls’ ribs as they  _ fall, fall, fall _ to shiny, polished floors, knocked down by harsh blows to the knees by a reed cane.

You turn to her, making sure to bow your head slightly as you face the woman.  _ Head down! _ , she’d said in that voice of hers, sharp and cutting like a knife yet never louder than a whisper.  _ How dare you look at me without my permission. Your superiors speak  _ first _. _

“Look at you,  _ Malenkyy Tantsor _ ,” the woman says. You can see red lips framing slightly yellowed teeth and grey-and-brown hair, but the other the features of her face are indiscernible, blurry. “You’re  _ weak _ without my guidance. Giving more than half of your salaries to people who don’t know your name, know your face, and will never seek you out? Risking your life to protect those who would kill you once they knew what you are?”

You keep your eyes trained on the wood floors, seeing your eyes stare back at you. They look old, tired even, yet your face is so young.

“This is what happens once you forget who you serve,” the woman says, hooking a finger under your chin and lifting your face to stare up at hers. You freeze at her features—the high cheekbones, the straight nose. All at once too familiar and inexplicably foreign.

The Madame gives you a cold smile. “You belong to Mother Russia, and you belong to  _ me _ . Do not forget that.”

 

You shoot up, sweat coating your body and making your hair stick to your face and neck. It was a dream. Nothing more and nothing less. The Madame couldn’t touch you, and you didn’t belong to  _ anyone _ , least of all some communistic country.

Stepping out of bed, you walk to the bathroom and turn on the cold tap, splashing some cold water on your face and on your neck. There was no way that you could sleep now.

 

 

Your fist slams into the man’s jaw with an audible  _ crack! _ After your nightmare, you’d been extremely pissed off. First, at the Madame and the Red Room for doing this to you, for ruining your life and screwing with your head so much that you could barely sleep through a night without screaming your head off, and at yourself, for even being affected in the first place.

A sharp elbow to a solar plexus here. A vicious headbutt there. One is fortunate enough to pull out a gun, but his luck runs out soon enough as you hook your knee around his throat and snap his neck with your foot before he can respond. Another gets close enough to get punch on your face, starting a steady stream of blood that runs down your nose.

You smile, teeth covered in scarlet. You’re especially cruel with this one, grabbing a crowbar from one of his fallen friends and hitting him hard in the kidneys. He lets out a grunt of pain, staggering back, and another three rush forward to subdue you. Taking the crowbar, you throw it and it lands its mark perfectly: in the eye of the middle man. The other two are still running after you, and the anticipation bubbles in your veins. He tries to grab you by the hair. You twist your body around and pull down on his arm, dislocating his shoulder. You throw him over to the last one, and they both fall over.

You’ve been like this for the better part of an hour now, itching for an exchange of blows and picking unnecessary fights. It’s always like this after a nightmare, though you’re usually more careful and go outside of Gotham before you start beating the shit out of lowlifes, but you’d stumbled across some assholes trying to sell drugs to a few teenagers. Despite your black-and-grey morality, kids were some of the untouchables, the ones that need protection. Not over-coddling, but  _ safety _ . Safety that you never got.

The Red Hood drops from one of the rooftops into the alley, and you know he’s seen the entire encounter. How needlessly violent you’d been. In fact, you know that he’s been trailing you for about thirty minutes now—waiting to see what you’d do. And he’s doing a pretty shit job of being inconspicuous in your opinion. You’d noticed him right away.

You almost snap at him, something acerbic and cynical that slides out of your mouth slowly, like syrup in a cup. Anything to avoid the words of pity or horror or reprimand that you know will fall from his lips.

But the Red Hood doesn’t say anything. In fact, he’s virtually silent as he walks over to you and offers his hand—a noiseless gesture of peace.

You take his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> lmao i accidentally made this into a series this is part one have fun
> 
> feel free to scream at me on tumblr: [starsapphre](http://starsapphre.tumblr.com)


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